


A gun for my mouth and a bullet with your name on it

by regsregis



Series: Breaking your habits [11]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Blowjobs, Co-CEO Jack, Dark Rhys, M/M, PWP, Post canon, Stepping kink, lotsa vaguely undefined kinks typical for this ship, rhack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: violently making out to make up what's better than that/can pretty much be read as a standalone separate from the series/





	A gun for my mouth and a bullet with your name on it

Rhys likes getting what he wants, feels very little shame about taking any necessary means to get it too. It’s not a ‘the end justifies the means’ situation, not really, mostly because he doesn’t need any justification for what he’s about to do, still really fucking mad at the other man but there’s a tinge of amusement beginning to build. Looking back at it, he was already in a bad mood when Jack called him into his office but it took one too many bad jokes and Jack’s general lack of cooperativeness that really tipped him into annoyance.  
Some squabbling over badly filled out paperwork later he’s here, roughly shoving Jack against the desk as he sinks to his knees. Teeth bared in a crooked half smirk and hands keeping Jack’s ass pinned to the edge of the desk Rhys files getting some real revenge away for later in favour of diffusing his frustration in an alternative way.

“Nu-uh kitten, that won’t do, no hands.” Jack has the audacity to make demands, demands Rhys very purposefully ignores as he lets out an angry growl and grabs two fistfuls of the other man’s jeans.  
He pulls them down, not even bothering with the buttons and the zippers and all that stuff that just loves getting in his way, little mind paid to the aggravated noise Jack makes when the rough material drags over his skin.  
Serves him right, Rhys thinks, for going commando like the idiot he is. Jack jerks against the touch and leans down to tangle both of his hands into Rhys’ hair, pulling his head back until it’s craned at a painful angle, “you deaf or plain stupid?”  
Rhys doesn’t deign that with an answer - fingertips skirting down the lines curling over Jack’s hips - and bravely puts on his most defiant, snotty expression. If the other man wasn’t so infuriatingly stupid, he would already be getting the head of his life but no, of course, he always has to have things go his way. No point getting into a fight over it right now though, not when both of them want to get things going, Rhys eventually rolling his eyes and folding both hands over his knees. Fine, he’s gonna let Jack win this round, and probably the next one as well when the other man lets go of his hair to shimmy the trousers down his thighs, and plucks the belt through the loops. Worn leather ends up now looped around his’ neck, the buckle digging into the side of his throat as Jack tightens it without any hesitation, and pulls until Rhys’ face is nearly fully pressed into his crotch.  
Rhys files throwing a hissy fit about it away for later, and instead of taking him in the mouth, as Jack clearly wants him to, licks a long stripe up the side of Jack’s only now slowly beginning to fill up length.  
Maybe for the better, given the frequency of their arguments, the man doesn’t do hate boners. Murder and physical fights usually get to him in the best kind of way, but when making out to make up for a squabble, he tends to need a little bit something extra to sweeten the deal. 

“You waiting for an official invitation? Just friggin get to it,” Jack’s impatience makes him give another tug to the impromptu leash and Rhys counters that with a deep moan once he can suck the air in. It might have sounded lewd, but he’s still able to keep a moderately cool head, hiding his self satisfaction behind a glassy look he shoots upwards.  
As he is right now, Jack fits nicely inside of his mouth, Rhys working the flat of his tongue against the flesh and wrenching a surprised sigh out of the other man. The pressure against his throat lifts so he makes up for that by shoving his face closer to the patch of dark curls marking a path down the center of Jack’s front. The view, Rhys guesses, or the sensations, certainly seem to be doing their job, the next time he bobs his head and tries to force the cock in his mouth deeper, it breaches the comfortable fit zone, hard, hot against his tongue and suddenly flexing. Surprised, he pulls back, a string of spit briefly connecting them before he coughs it away, his gag reflex needing a second to simmer down.  
Rhys doesn’t stay idle for the duration of that either, fingernails scratching up his own tighs untli he can grab a fistful of the bunched up material, and he holds onto it just to keep his own composure in reigns. At the same time, he noses over to the thinner layer of skin on the inside of Jack’s thigh, the man’s legs loosely falling to the sides, seemingly without his conscious decision judging by his comically surprised expression. Light shivers travel up the taut muscles when Rhys breaths out a puff of cooler air. It’s a brief gesture of mercy before he latches onto the skin, teeth and tongue skimming over it, intermittent with harsher sucks that draw the blood closer to the surface. The coarse layer of hair leaves his tongue verging on numb after a couple moments and Rhys feels like he needs to pin something that would stake his claim on the man all the more prominently. Without a second thought he pulls a thin stripe of skin in between his teeth, biting down hard and cruel. It brings out a sound between a groan and a choked back swear, Jack’s free fist driven into the desk as his knees nearly buckle.

“You little…” Jack trails off to suck in a breath, his next word a stuttered tremble when Rhys’s tongue skirts the indentation marks, “... fucker.”  
That earns him a dark look shielded under the canopy of Rhys’ lashes, and a smile that is every ounce soft and loving until it’s ruined when Rhys slowly licks his lips, one corner tilting into a meaner expression.  
Contrary to all the hissing and swearing, there is a kiss of dampness against Rhys’ cheek when he leans back closer to Jack’s centre, the man’s length hard and proud, with a bead of precome catching the low lights of the room - a testament to how far Rhys can take him with what little attention he has offered so far. He doesn’t wait for another tug to come, pressing his lips, loose and soft, to the very tip, Jack jerking against the sudden touch and janking on the belt regardless. There is a mumbled encouragement - a demand actually, given that it’s Jack after all, and Rhys parts his lips to let the heat in. This is the part where he gets to work in earnest, giving his best with little regards for the sloppiness. Which ultimately is met with a throaty moan of approval, red splotches blooming in the hollows of Jack’s cheeks and travelling down the skin peeking above the disheveled collar of his shirt.  
He doesn’t hold back in the least, going as far as he can on each pass and pressing his tongue to the underside of the cock in his mouth for added pressure.  
As much as it’s Jack’s power fantasy, it’s Rhys’ eagerness that dictates the pace, meeting the man halfway and giving him things he craves even before the idea fully forms in his head.  
He barely bothers with any actual sucking, more focused on offering the welcoming touch of sloppy heat rather than constricting tightness.  
It doesn’t take long for the other man to tilt into something closer to needy desperation, Jack trying to get that little bit more, between the forward jerks of his hips and the tugs on the belt, his efforts coming to a shaky halt moments later. Rhys can see his eyes nearly cross when the man finds himself in quite the predicament, sharp teeth pinching on the stretch of his foreskin and grinding ever so slightly. There is a threat there, that Rhys could bite down harder, hard enough to do real damage. It’s a bit of a stalemate, with the buckle of the belt pressing against Rhys’ throat, pulled taut, not as strong as to make him budge, but still restricting the air, and with the way he’s barely toeing the line keeping him from clenching his jaw harder. 

“The fuck’s up with you today?” Jack’s voice is strained, the man stuck between anger and fear - fighting against his instincts. Instincts which threaten the trust that Rhys is still fond enough of his dick that he wouldn’t take things too far. And trust is a hard thing to come by when dealing with Jack. “I find out you’ve given me…” once again Jack’s rant is interrupted with the lightest of tugs and he squeezes his eyes for a second before continuing, “...given me rabies I’m putting you down cupcake.”  
Rhys quietly wonders what’s up with the other man that he’s letting him get away with all of that in the first place, but wisely chooses to keep it to himself this time. Never anything good came out rubbing things in Jack’s face, not that it’s an advice he follows all that often but he has a feeling that pointing out how much he seems to be getting off on pain would cut this session shorter than he’d like.  
As it usually is the case, Jack's perfectly willing to accept and even enjoy all sorts of things infringing on his comfort zone provided it is never stated out loud. A hard lesson for Rhys it was, discovering how to navigate around Jack’s ego and rather rely on his less than coherent if certainly enthusiastic reactions or extremely vocal protests.

(He still fondly recalls that one time he got lectured how Handsome Jack couldn’t be fucked. And how he shouldn’t be fucked with. To quote the man, he was essentially unfuckable unless you wanted a death sentence. Which he went on about for the whole duration of Rhys first prepping him and then driving into him at a leisure pace, occasionally interrupted with progressively more and more lewd moans, only to later stretch into the usually quiet aftermath.)

They say mercy is a virtue and Rhys has never been a man of it, but he figures he’s inches away from overstepping Jack’s patience and hospitality, the man’s skin taking on a sheen of sweat and he’s nearly shaking against his self imposed restraints. So he hides the smirk behind the nips he trails down the sensitive underside once he finally lets go of the other man’s skin and Jack seems to wholeheartedly approve if the hisses intermingling with little groans are anything to go by. Regardless, Rhys soothes the bites with a few passes of his tongue until Jack grows fed up with all the teasing, one hand tangling into Rhys’ already dishevelled hair and pulling him into a nosedive, throat constricting against the sudden intrusion. He has always prided himself on this particular skill, this time being no exception, clipped breaths escaping through his nose and tongue lolling out as he lets his jaw drop slack.

“I’m gonna...get you...so bad for this...cupcake,” Jack threatens, each pause punctuated with a forward roll of his hips and Rhys just laughs, strangled and throaty. As far as he can tell, Jack’s too far gone by now to actually remember about it later. His hair is released in favour of Jack’s thumb forcing its way into his mouth, keeping it open with the pad and the knuckle wedged somewhere back in between his teeth. He briefly grinds them as a warning but otherwise lets the other man do as he pleases, catching from the corner of his eye the knuckles of the fist holding onto the belt turning white. Jack’s eyes are screwed shut and he occasionally sucks his breath in without releasing it for a few longer moments, head thrown back and his movements growing jerky, which usually signalises the home stretch.  
And Rhys isn’t wrong the blush on his own cheeks highlighted with the dimmed lights from his echo eyes, Jack’s grip on his jaw growing borderline bruising, barely intelligible swears and threats loosely falling from the his tongue as Rhys keeps his own pliant under the smooth glide of heated skin.  
Little decency as Jack has, at least when he comes, he remembers to keep the mess from reaching Rhys’ face or clothes, the man notorious for throwing tantrums whenever that happened. Jack gets there with the hand previously holding onto the belt now wrapped around his own length and short, rapid strokes. Amongst all the profanities slips a name, not a nickname, and that makes Rhys feel charitable enough that he swallows the bitterness filling his mouth, eventually sending a crooked smile towards the man currently trying to catch his breath.

“Goddamnit,” Jack stares with a grimace at the dick he’s holding in his hand, “I’mma be sore for the next week you teething little bastard.”  
It’s met with a tongue slowly running over Rhys’ teeth, a perfectly straight row, now on full display when his smile grows.

“Serves you right for being such an asshole. And jeez Jack, you could really stand to change your diet a little bit, all those pretzels aren’t doing you any favours in terms of flavour.”

“Spoiled brat,” and yet, Jack finishes fixing his jeans and leans down, Rhys’ jaw still in his iron grip although the thumb has withdrawn a while ago, and takes a good hard look at the face mere inches away from his, “you could really stand to grow some more refined tastes.”

With that Jack lets go of him completely and he seems to be done here, much to Rhys’ displeasure, “what, not even a thank you kiss?”  
That catches Jack halfway through already looking around the office for the paperwork previously abandoned when the initial fight originally broke out, “no, you’re a nasty piece of work Rhysie.”  
However, it still brings Jack’s attention back to him, and Rhys tilts his head, fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt to loosen it and let the blue ink crawling nearly up to his collarbones peek. “You don’t deserve me,” he huffs out a fake sigh, cybernetic palm smoothing down the tented front of his pants, the way Jack’s mismatched eyes follow the movement duly noted.

It’s enough to draw Jack back into his immediate proximity, one hand fisting into his shirt and the sudden pull has him raising slightly from his kneeling position, “kitten,” Jack’s voice is dark and threatening and maybe it should scare him if Rhys didn’t know better, “you’re right screwed in the head. Don’t think you’re in any position to act this bratty.”

He can’t help the, what he thinks is a sexy, alluring smile, but in reality trips straight into dumb-pleased. Hook, line and sinker, Jack eats up the act and nearly chokes on it.

“Oh?” It’s every inch fake and teasing, “you’re going to do anything about it?” The shove that sends him back sprawling across the cold office floor puts a damper on his bravado, in spite of it, Rhys is still quietly hoping for a pity handjob at least.

“Maybe, if you can keep your idiot mouth shut.”

Before he can make another involuntary quip that would surely endanger his chances even more, it turns into a quiet moan because Jack’s back to looming over him, hands on his hips and glaring right at him. Rhys becomes intimately aware of his vulnerable position, legs spreading against his better judgement when beaten sneakers shuffle closer into the space between his thighs. He’s not sure what the other man has in store for him, the expression on Jack’s face clouded and unreadable.  
The mystery dissipates when the rubber tip nudges first right into the spot where his thighs meet and then torturously slow trails up the curve of Rhys’ dick, still shielded by the material of his slacks.

“First, I’m gunna remind you of your place cupcake,” Rhys can feel the hairs at the nape of his neck bristling, nervous sweat building on his brow. They both can feel the sudden flex against the sole of Jack’s shoe, his smirk turning a few degrees sharper and Rhys’ face heating up. “Let’s start with some good ole’ housekeeping, no more mouthing off, we in clear there?”

He nods, both to let the other man know he has heard and acknowledged the command as well as to give a green light for Jack to keep going.  
The pressure increases and Rhys can’t hold back a groan, hips twitching as he tries to get some friction and ears ringing when blood rushes in two opposite directions. With how things are right now, he’d let Jack do any and everything to him, falling apart under the scrutinizing gaze. The undivided attention is focused on him, and him alone, Rhys as much craving it as he’s painfully aware of all the lives and limbs lost to it.  
Jack’s violent tendencies took their toll on their uneasy relations more than once and yet there is something ultimately thrilling about letting the man pick his composure apart like this and then fix him up again, a little bit more like Jack each time. Rhys figures it’s no longer hero worship, he has lost that years ago, but it’s crippling envy, of Jack’s complete lack of morality and the iron will to see the world bend for him. He won’t bend or break for Jack, but there is enough give in him to help him survive and make things work. 

“Hey!” the pressure lifts before coming back down hard on his thigh and Rhys sucks in a pained yelp, “you’re not going on some moronic soul searching journey right now, are ya Rhysie? Cause you just got that blank stare on and as offending as it is, it’s also creeping the fuck outta me,” Jack grinds the heel into the tender inside of his leg and Rhys hisses. Right now he would much rather have Jack go for something on the sharper end of the spectrum instead of the dull ache leaving only frustration in its wake, “head back in the game or you’re dealing with it on your own.”

Rhys meets that with a pout, “ ‘s not like you’re doing much anyway.”

“Could be doing much less if your pathetic ass doesn’t show some gratitude.” Now that’s a real threat, one that Jack is quite likely to follow up on if Rhys doesn’t fix his attitude.

“Yeah I’m…” the recycled air of the station filling his lungs doesn’t bring any semblance of clarity, “....sorry Jack,” Rhys words end in a quiet whine.

“Better,” it’s no secret that Jack’s absolutely in love with his own voice and Rhys might be a little bit too, “down on your back, belly up and so freakin’ needy, that’s a really good look on you Rhysie.” Jack’s cruel mouth curves into a gentle smile and it’s this weird, perfect combination of wicked and kind that’s doing him in and which has Rhys shoving aside some of his own egocentrism to make some space for the man in his heart.

“Y-yeah,” he agrees, whether with Jack or his own thoughts, doesn’t matter, focused again on the pressure returning to where he needs it most. Not nearly enough but light and leaving a fair dose of wiggle room for him to grind against the sole of the sneaker.  
This whole powerplay, going down on Jack and watching him shake and shiver under his touches, paired with the current hopelessness has left him tethering on the edge for a longer while now. Rhys doesn’t even want to touch up on the poison of Jack’s words lightning the blood in his veins, simply letting it happen, the spell completely taking over him, barely even registering the humiliating position he has found himself in. Shame or reservations have no place when it’s just the two of them, not when they both have pushed one another to their lowest. Yet another thing he doesn’t need to dwell on right now, toes growing numb, hands partly obscuring his flushed face and fingers tangled in the mussed up bangs. Rhys desperately holds onto himself because the alternative is swatting Jack away and just taking the matters into his own hands and that would be awful and unfair because it would take the other man out of the equation.

Each inhale is now accompanied by a variety of sighs and groans, the heels of Rhys’ boots skidding across the floor when he seeks some extra purchase and he can nearly taste the gratification. Just a little bit more and he doesn’t realize he’s mumbling it out loud, brain looped on a single thought until he cracks one eye open, peeking from between the relative safety of his palms and catches the heated stare fixed right on him.  
He thinks Jack orders him to go for it right now but it might as well be his imagination because all the sounds are drowned in the sudden deafness, the only thing his mind can register is the roiling pleasure and his own heartbeat. It feels like his orgasm has been wrenched out of him, Rhys shaking from the exertion even as he completely slumps down, relieved sigh escaping him when Jack steps away and gives him some more or less respectful space.  
He doesn’t feel like getting up just yet, eventually rolling partway onto his side and attempting to lift himself up on his forearm, the other man coming around to crouch next to him.

“Right messed up, that’s whatcha are Rhysie,” Jack’s hand comes to ruffle through the bird nest of his hair, much to Rhys’ general annoyance.

“Noone sane could stand you as long as me,” he has a point here but Jack takes to it with a lighthearted chuckle and eventually, Rhys responds with a nearly shy, private grin of his own.


End file.
